


Hells to Betsy

by matchstick_dolly



Series: Matches After Midnight [4]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Dancing, Episode Related, Episode: s02e04 Lady Parts, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Humor, Light Angst, Massage, Old Age, POV Lucifer, POV Original Character, Prostitution, Season/Series 02, Sex Work, The Devil is a Sneaky Bastard, the Devil is the world's oldest professional in the world's oldest profession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly
Summary: How the Devil turned a trick for Chloe Decker to get a sweet five-year lease on some prime real estate—and how it all backfired a few weeks later.
Relationships: Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)/Original Character(s)
Series: Matches After Midnight [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620778
Comments: 37
Kudos: 198





	Hells to Betsy

**Author's Note:**

> For [Fuckruary 2020](https://freakyfebruary.tumblr.com)'s "Massage" prompt. Also, I...have to do another oil PSA? For sweet almond oil. Unless you've gotten a trash oil, it's safe, probably, for your intimate needs. But don't use it with condoms unless you want to be a parent. And I'm not your doctor. Don't @ me.

Betsy Miller tried to make the most of old age, but the truth was she was waiting around to die. Every morning, she woke, threw her stick legs over the side of a bed that was too big for one person, and sighed. She missed her husband John—God rest his soul—but he'd presumably been in Heaven a long time now, well over a decade. She missed her close friends, Rachel and Annette, both of whom had died in the last two years, one from pneumonia, the other from heart failure. She even missed Calamity, that good-for-nothing, torn-eared tabby she'd taken in and let scratch her and bite her and piss on her plants until only a stubborn succulent remained.

What she missed most was being seen. At all. 

Despite not being the least bit dead, she had somehow become a ghost. That was hard for one who had been so classically beautiful when she was young: doe-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ringlet-curled, blessed with slenderness and curves alike, and not so tall that insecure boys felt intimidated or so short that the world felt too big. Pride and vanity were sins, the old bat nuns had tried to beat into her with their pent-up urges and wicked yardsticks, but she'd always been proud of her beauty and liked being ogled by men and envied by women. 

Wasn't very feminist of her, maybe, but Betsy had never burned a bra or concerned herself with labels. For one, she'd been far too busy as she danced her way out of her family's cramped boarding house in Brooklyn, onto bar stages with men and women who'd fled the South. She'd kept on dancing right across the pond with the USO, where she met an army man—a boy, really—who knew how to cut a rug and grinned a charming, gap-toothed grin around cigarettes that would one day kill him long after North Koreans couldn't. He got down on one knee five days after he met her, and, as the saying goes, the rest was history. They never made babies, but they did make a dance studio where they taught other people's babies and partnered with the occasional traveling troupe.

It was a wonderful life. A full life, filled with people.

And she was still living it, but it wasn't so wonderful anymore. No husband, no close friends worth mentioning, no good-for-nothing cat, no babies who'd grown up to call on Sundays. Just tenants who didn't talk to her as they put in their maintenance requests, which she passed on to Fred, who was too busy with fourteen townhouses to stay for coffee. 

Yes, she was just waiting for this old body to go caput. For a long time, she'd tried to fill her days with activities, but things got patronizing, the older you got. You got to a certain age, and the young who organized the events got your needs all mixed up with those of the toddlers they were dealing with at home. Thought you needed naps and diapers and mushed up food, maybe some catchy songs about Jesus as they saw your soul out the door. Of course, it didn't help when most of your peers really did have those needs.

Betsy, though, was in good shape. She still danced, albeit a little more slowly, and her mind was no worse than it had been forty years ago. Perhaps if she sat in her chair or lay in her bed, she'd waste away quickly and be pounding on Heaven's pearly gates in no time, but there was something in her that just wouldn't let her do it. Music, she thought, some little beat that made her get up and groove.

She danced to the record player first thing each morning. 

_How lucky can one guy be..._

She danced into her closet and practical clothes.

_I kissed her, and she kissed me..._

She danced as her coffee brewed. 

_Like the fella once said..._

She danced as her toast popped up from the old toaster.

_Ain't that a kick in the head?_

She was so busy shuffling and spinning and swaying her hips on this particular Friday that she almost missed the knock at the door. It was probably just the mail carrier or Fred, but there was still a little skip in her step as she floated toward the front of her home, eager to see who might be on the other side.

Betsy threw open the door, and her mouth fell open with it. _Here_ was a man who'd been hit with the opposite end of the ugly stick. Tall and darkly handsome, somewhere in his upper thirties or early forties, he was well-kempt and dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit. She had everything she needed, but she would buy anything he was selling.

"Good _morning_ , my dear," the man said, his voice full of vigor and an airy British accent. 

"H-hello," Betsy stammered, and patted at grey hair. She leaned against her door frame, sliding her hand up its length. "How can I help you?"

Behind her, the record skipped before moving to the next song. 

_I have always placed you far above me... I just can't imagine that you love me..._

The man's face lit up in a way that set her old heart dancing. "Gosh, it's been _forever_ since I've heard Dean Martin," he said, and waltzed right into her home.

Betsy sure as hell let him enter, too. She hadn't seen a man in a suit for...oh, so very long. Boys these days went around in the most _common_ of clothes, only bothering with dressing up for special occasions and funerals. She spun gently on the ball of her foot, following the stranger's movements, and shut the door behind her. She'd never cared much for all the warnings about strangers, even when it came to men. People were people were people, and if this one wanted to bonk her upside the head, well, at least she'd see something pretty on the way out. 

The man seemed to shake himself free from the music, and she smiled a little, sensing a kindred spirit. "Where are my manners?" he said, extending a hand. "The name's Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar."

Los Angeles had always been a little less pious than other cities, but that was quite the alias.

"Betsy Miller," she replied, taking his hand. He smiled warmly as he cradled her fingers like boys used to do, when girls were shiny treasures to be won. "I think Mother Superior warned me about you," she chuckled. 

He smirked with her. "Oh, I've no doubt she did. But I'm really quite harmless." He flashed a grin. "Now, Betsy, I'm afraid this isn't purely a social call for me at present. I've been told you own these buildings around here."

Betsy withdrew her hand. Her heart fell a little as the reality of old age descended. This man might hold her fingers like he was a suitor from a bygone era, but she was no young beauty to catch his eye. God was cruel. Why was it you got old, when your soul didn't? 

"Yes, I own these buildings," she said. "And, no, the property isn't for sale."

"Oh, I'm not looking to buy anything. Not really my style—no offense. But you've one or two flats to rent, haven't you?"

The next track from the album began playing as she narrowed her eyes and wondered how and where he'd gotten his information. "They're not quite ready yet," she said carefully.

"I imagine not. But one will open up soon, yes? My partner and her offspring are in the market for a place to rent, and I believe she's considering your one down the way. I'm here wondering if there's some chance she might seal the deal before you pop it onto a website."

"Sunrise Properties handles the initial showing and lease signing for me. You'll need to take it up with them." She was ready to die, sure, but legalese seemed like an awful way to spend her last days on Earth.

"No wiggle room, even for _that_ flat?" He leaned closer, as if divulging a secret. "You see, I consult for the LAPD, and I happen to know you just got rid of a bit of a murderer problem after she bumped off her sorority sisters the next door over, so I—"

"These are large three bedroom, two bath homes with new fixtures," Betsy interrupted, ever protective of her retirement income, especially after all the renovations. "The guilty party was arrested, professional cleaners have been by, and the going rate around here is five thousand a month. Now, that's a lot, but I know the location I'm sitting on, and I don't argue with the market."

"Of course not. Why would you? And, don't get me wrong, I do appreciate a shrewd businesswoman," he purred, "but I think three-and-a-half, maybe four, is a little more my partner's speed. Say, locked into a...five-year lease?"

Betsy almost laughed. He was handsome, but he was crazy, too. "I think your partner can find somewhere else to live, Mr. Morningstar."

"Call me Lucifer," he insisted, and graced her wrist with a featherlight touch before withdrawing once more. "I'm sure you and I can hash out a little deal to achieve this."

"If you want to help your _partner_ that much, you can help foot the bill." 

"Yes, well, that doesn't work for me, I'm afraid. She doesn't know I'm here, and I'd rather keep it that way."

She squinted at him thoughtfully. "The kid yours?"

Lucifer reared back, as if she had burned him. "She most certainly is _not_."

Hmm. Betsy looked him up and down, considering. Hung up on an old flame? Then again, maybe he was light in the loafers and just cared for a friend. It had always been hard to know with the sorts who flocked to Los Angeles and New York City, especially when they liked to dress well. "I don't know what deal you think you can make that would get me to lower her rent, but—"

"Oh, come now, a woman such as yourself knows money doesn't buy everything!" He looked around her apartment, spreading his arms wide. "You've surrounded yourself with trinkets from around the world, my dear, and if there's one thing I know it's that a roving soul is never satisfied. So, I'm sure there must be _something_ you desire." He leaned forward and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "You can tell _me_ if you like." He raised his brows.

Betsy tilted her head back and fell into a warm, brown-eyed gaze that felt as deep and broad as the Pacific. A thousand secrets settled upon her tongue, some she wasn't even sure she knew herself, and a strange sense of peace swept over her. The kind she felt when she was sure John was safe and the war was over. She knew, without a doubt, she could tell this man anything.

"I want to be swept off my feet one last time."

She blinked and rubbed at her brow, feeling a little like she had just woken up. Lucifer's grin had softened into a gentle, close-lipped smile. Distantly, there was some part of her that thought she should be embarrassed for blurting out such a tender secret, but instead she felt relieved to have spoken the words.

Lucifer took her hands in his. "It looks like you and I might be able to help each other out, after all."

* * *

***

* * *

The next evening, Lucifer returned to Betsy Miller's apartment complex with a dozen pink roses, a vintage red, and a bottle of sweet almond oil. He was dressed in classic black and white, his hair parted sharply to the side in honor of an era she would recall with fondness. A deal was a deal, and it wasn't unusual for his body to be part of the transaction—might as well go the extra mile, as it were. It was a paltry and enjoyable price to pay for the detective and her charge to be in a safe environment—well, presumably safe, now that they'd apprehended the neighborhood ne'er-do-well. It would also be far easier to get to this complex than some of the others the detective was considering. Barring acts of Dad, awards shows, and humans torturing themselves in 5k runs, he could pop over from Lux in no more than twenty-five minutes. 

Shouldn't be too difficult to sort. Anyway, older women could be a good bit of fun—although, it had been a while since he'd shagged one with a foot in the grave. He had a strong preference for youth and middle age because it was uncomplicated. The closer a soul was to shuffling off its mortal coil, the harder it was to enjoy his retirement without burdensome memories of his former life getting in the way. But, well, needs must.

He knocked on Betsy's door. Heels clicked steadily on the hardwood floor within, and soon, the door opened wide onto the short, smiling beauty. 

"Lucifer!" she cried, blue eyes wide. She was clearly shocked he had kept his word.

"Darling, aren't you lovely!" He leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss to her right cheek. "These are for you," he said, holding out the flowers with a grin. 

Betsy blushed and took the roses with delicate hands slightly bent by arthritis. Time had been kinder to her than it was to most humans her age. Her deepest wrinkles were laugh lines, and though she was a little bony, it was offset by sinew gained from a life of movement. Where time had been less kind, she made up for it by dressing well. Her long grey hair was pulled back into a soft bun with two wooden hair sticks that were topped with pale emerald stones which matched the green leaves in her floral, tea-length dress and complemented the darker green of her T-strap pumps. A cream-colored, knit capelet rested lightly over her shoulders.

"Make yourself at home!" she invited, as she glided toward the kitchen across the room. 

Lucifer set the wine and almond oil on a nearby credenza and picked up a framed photograph. In it, a young, beautiful Betsy, in a dress not dissimilar to the one she wore now, stood before a taller young man whose arms were wrapped around her middle. He grinned at the side of her head, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Mr. Miller, I presume?" Lucifer asked, lifting the frame higher.

Betsy glanced up from where she was arranging her roses in a vase. "John, yes."

"Nice chap?"

"The very best," she said softly. She caressed a rose petal with a finger. "You remind me of him, actually."

"Do I?"

Lucifer glanced at John's picture skeptically. Looks aside, he wasn't entirely surprised by the comparison. Wherever he went, he tended to craft a persona that was just slightly out of place and time—noticeably strange, but also comfortably familiar. It drew women like ants to honey. Well, all except the detective, who claimed to find him repulsive, but then made drunken advances with the best of them. Confusing woman. He frowned.

"John did all sorts of strange things to ensure I was comfortable in life," Betsy said, coming to stand beside him and look upon her husband.

"A night of fun is hardly strange." Clearing his throat, he set the photograph back in its place and turned to Betsy, extending his arm. "Shall we, my dear?"

Smiling, Betsy curled her hand around his bicep. He folded his arm and tucked her close to his side, and together they went into the world as a couple.

* * *

***

* * *

Lucifer was a purveyor and cultivator of desire. Anything a companion longed for, he provided and then some, for it thrilled something within him to please others. For Betsy, he'd found the perfect dance hall for the evening, a secret gem in Santa Monica, where on a Saturday night literal and figurative old souls might be found shaking a hip and grinding a heel to the lindy hop, the jitterbug, or the twist. 

Excitement rushed through Lucifer's veins as he rounded the Corvette and helped Betsy from the passenger's side. He loved anything that got humans writhing to a good tune, but in Lux, he'd found he missed the artistry of movement that had once been common amongst the masses. That had been one of the most surprising changes since his last stint on Earth. Gone were the days when every dance floor was filled with couples who knew what they were doing or were at least eager to learn. Oh, he liked bumping and grinding as much as the next chap, but it wasn't the same. 

As they crossed the street from where he'd questionably parked, jazz carried on a sea breeze, and he felt, more than saw, the years fall away from Betsy.

She felt it as well. "No cautionary words about my old age?" she teased. 

"Darling, I judge not." He grinned down at her legs, which remained toned, even in her eighties. "Anyway, I think you'll do fine."

At the entrance, a young blond woman with a clipboard and breasts that deserved their own zip code beamed up at him. " _Aww_ , it's so nice that you brought your grandma to dance!" she cooed.

"I don't have a grandmother," Lucifer said, handing over cash for the cover charge.

The dance hall was old, its hardwood scratched by heels but brought to a glow by lemon oil and modern recessed lighting. Forty or fifty dancers twirled around one another, wiggling ankles and scooting polished leather toes. At the back of the hall, a live band of sharp-dressed men and women lifted saxophones and trumpets, pounded drums, and plucked at a fat-bodied bass. The keyboard in use was tragically underwhelming, but then little sounded as good as the piano in his own home.

There was no need to ask Betsy if she cared to dance. He laughed delightedly as she grabbed his hand and pulled him to the floor, her old hips moving. She was a little slower than younger dancers, but not by much, and soon they drew a crowd of onlookers for their oddness alone. Strands of grey slipped from her bun as he twirled her round. And for a while they lost themselves to the music, until Lucifer was no longer the Devil, and Betsy was no longer a lonely, old widow.

Nearly an hour later, she stumbled slightly, and he caught her round the waist, turning the fault into something that looked like an intentional dance move. "Need a breather?" he asked over the music.

Betsy sighed. "Probably, if I ever want to move again."

They wandered away from the dance floor, through the lobby, and out into the warm night. A short distance from the brown brick building where the dance hall was located, they found a bench and sat. Lucifer withdrew his cigarette case and flipped it open, offering it to Betsy.

She shook her head. "Those things'll kill you."

Lucifer chuckled darkly. "Not likely."

"John thought that."

"Ah." He flicked his lighter. "Well, your John and I may have less in common than you think." Cigarette lit, he drew on it hard and sighed smoke. These were better when the detective was near—everything was better when she was near, truth be told—but he wasn't one to shun any high, no matter how minuscule. 

"Thank you for that," Betsy said.

"The night's just begun," he said, crossing his legs and stretching an arm along the back of the bench. He gently thumbed the shoulder of her capelet.

Betsy sat up a little straighter, nervous. "You're a good dancer." 

"I've had lots of time to learn." 

After all, there were Hell loops dedicated to making souls dance forever. Once, back when he didn't trouble himself with the whys of eternal damnation, he'd found such things comical, especially when the souls wept and tried to bargain with the Devil to put an end to their misery. But there were no deals humans could make with the Devil in Hell. They had nothing to offer. In truth, even _he_ had nothing to offer in such a place.

"Are you in love with her?"

Lucifer blinked from his musings. "Pardon?"

"Your partner. Are you in love with her?"

He snorted. The Devil didn't do love—didn't _know_ love. Couldn't. 

"I'm intrigued by her," he said, then frowned and rubbed his sternum. It felt like a lie, but he wasn't certain what the truth was, other than he'd never wanted to kiss anyone more than he wanted to kiss Chloe Decker.

"Well, don't waste any time. Life is short, Lucifer."

"That it is," he agreed softly, and imagined laying flowers on a grave he never desired to see. The fire of his cigarette met his fingertips as it burned down to a nub. He tossed it before him and stamped at it. "Well, shall we dance more?"

Betsy smiled. "That was enough, thank you. Let's have dinner."

* * *

***

* * *

They dined on steak and seafood in a chophouse where the chef would never finish paying off his debt to the Devil. Lucifer enjoyed himself as Betsy spoke fondly of her years as a dance instructor and occasional traveling performer. After their main course, he leaned across the white tablecloth and spoonfed her crème brûlée, occasionally stealing a sweet bite for himself. She ate hesitantly, glancing at other tables where nosy people were not nearly as subtle as they believed.

"Relax," he told her. "What do those tossers matter, anyway?"

"They're your peers," she whispered. "Shouldn't _you_ care?"

Lucifer huffed, amused. "Darling, I am without peer," he said. "There is but one Devil."

The reply took Betsy by surprise, and she laughed, soft wrinkles fanning. She thought him eccentric or crazy, or perhaps a bit of both. It didn't matter, really.

"If you're the Devil, who's overseeing Hell?" she asked, eyes sparkling.

"My brother patrols the gates—or, well, _did_ before he fell." He shrugged. "All in all, don't know, don't care."

They finished the crème brûlée in companionable silence. Lucifer paid the bill, tipping the waiter for both his extraordinary service and extraordinary hindquarters, before drawing Betsy to her feet and exiting the restaurant.

Sinatra crooned to them on the way back to Betsy's apartment. She was quiet beside him, eyes closed, but the small smile on her face told him she was merely living in the moment. Wind blew around the open sides of the Corvette, and grey hair danced around her head.

He parked where she directed him and followed her up to her apartment. He pretended not to see how her hands shook as she unlocked her door. Inside, he strode to the credenza and lifted the wine bottle he'd brought with him earlier in the night and arched a brow in question. Betsy nodded without comment and took the bottle from him.

"How does a massage sound?" Lucifer queried over his glass of wine a few minutes later. "I brought oil."

"Sounds nice," she said, nodding a little uncertainly. "I haven't had a massage in a very long time." She laughed, but it was a tired sound. "I haven't had much contact at all in a very long time, to tell you the truth."

Lucifer drank deeply before setting his glass aside on the counter and reaching out a hand. "Come, then. Show me to your room."

Betsy led him upstairs. She clung to the railing of the stairwell as she ascended, Lucifer close behind her.

Her bedroom was eclectic, like much else in her home. A love letter to her travels and to the husband she missed. A colorful quilt was spread out across a white bedcover, and above the wooden, queen-sized bed frame was a substantial collection of framed pictures, many in black and white. He saw parents and friends and pets and, above all else, John—John, who was hardly ever alone, but instead pressed against a curly-haired girl. 

The wall of photos was far from the only expression of abiding affection Lucifer had seen in his long existence, but he stopped and stared nonetheless, feeling some deep pain he had no words for, even when he searched for them in sessions with Linda. As if he were plagued by a nostalgia for something he had never experienced in the first place.

When Betsy sat on the side of her bed, the coils in her mattress creaked, drawing Lucifer back into the present. He watched her tremble as he removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. 

Kneeling beside the bed, Lucifer gently unbuckled her green pumps, setting them aside. He rested her toes across the flat of his palm and smiled at nails painted the color of Pinot noir.

"I've had a wonderful night," Betsy said softly, pulling her feet away and tucking them together. "The dancing, the dinner... Truly, it was... It was just _wonderful_." She sighed. "If your friend really needs a break on her rent, I'll talk to her, all right?"

"Dismissing me already, are you?" Leaning an elbow beside her hips on the mattress, Lucifer rested his head on a fist and gazed up at her. "I didn't get the impression that dancing was all you wanted."

"Goodness, you're a flirt," she laughed, and her cheeks darkened beneath her rouge. "Honey, don't you see I'm _old_? And don't tell me you can't have any young thing you want."

"You're not wrong," he said with a roguish grin.

"So what is this?"

"A deal between two people?" He shrugged as he shook his head. "You're overthinking this. Do you desire me?"

"At my age—"

"Never mind your age. Do you desire me?"

Betsy let out a deep, exasperated sigh. "Well, I'm old, not dead." Lucifer chuckled, and she continued, "But _you_ are a young man, and you do _not_ want me."

Reaching out, he traced a finger up her nearest ankle bone and smiled when she inhaled sharply. "Why don't you let me decide what I desire?"

That was the easiest, most acceptable response to such concerns. Really, there weren't words in any language for what was intrinsic to his being—how he sensed desire in others and himself. Desire was more complicated than any human or other angel could possibly understand. It was not a binary on or off switch, but a network of tangled threads which might be manipulated to pleasurable or painful ends. It was the curve of a hip, a mouth lifting into a smile, a voice belting a song, a touch in the dark. And it was more than all of that, too. It was the soul beneath the flesh, straining to break free from its cage. 

Souls came with no blatant aura, but he sensed them sometimes as little whispers around invisible corners. Some souls, like Betsy's, were just a little more appealing than others. He'd very much liked walking into a home filled with Dean Martin's dulcet tones. It meant something to him that souls of the past should be remembered, long after he could no longer talk to them.

If he couldn't find it in himself to desire those who wanted to be desired, well, he could find someone to fit the bill in his stead or some reason to make it worth his while—such as, say, ensuring a stubborn detective didn't make a foolish mistake by living deep in suburbia. Whoring was just another job, after all, one he was good at, and one far more pleasurable than the job the Devil was best known for having. It helped, too, that he pitched a tent faster than a park warden at the simplest of touches.

"You won't regret this?" Betsy whispered.

"Not in the least."

She relaxed, but he wasn't so foolish as to think she wouldn't require some more convincing. He took things slowly, opening the bottle of sweet almond oil and rubbing some in his hands. He massaged her tired feet and calves until she was practically melting before his eyes. When he stood again, he smirked slightly as her gaze dipped south. Tilting her chin up, he ran his hands back against her jaw and up into her hair, where he loosed her bun. Long, wavy locks fell to the middle of her back, and he smiled.

"Lovely," he said.

He bent and pressed his mouth to hers.

Together, they removed each other's clothes in the quiet, lamplit night, until immortal youthfulness met tired but eager flesh. After a small exploration of one another, he sat beside her on the bed as she lay on her stomach, and he poured oil down the length of her spine, setting to work with all that time and experience had given him. There weren't many muscles in the human back, but they were interconnected and easily irritated by stress. He dug his thumb gently into knots and swept the heel of his palm along the edge of her bony shoulder blades.

When she was very nearly asleep, he poured more oil and glided his hands lower, first down her legs and then over the curve of her rear, and lower, between her legs. She stiffened, and he paused. "More?" he asked.

"Yes."

He massaged oil through her gently curled hair and deeper still. Time may have been kinder to Betsy than most, but it was truly kind to no human. What would have once thrilled the woman beside him into readiness now required a little aid. But that was all right.

"Right, how are your hips?" he asked.

"I'm not that breakable," she mumbled into her pillow.

"I've heard that one before, darling." And what a mess that had been. "Be honest with me."

Betsy let out an exasperated huff. "The left one is fake."

"And the right?"

"Should be."

He looked at her thoughtfully, sifting through low-impact positions in his head. The last thing he needed was for her to break a hip and not be able to keep her end of the deal. She was tired after dancing and agreed with him that she might already _be_ in the most comfortable position.

It took some fumbling, some more oil, and a good sense of humor, but anything was possible between willing parties. She was a quiet lover, given to soft sighs as he moved slowly, but as she neared climax, he smiled at the hitches in her breathing. She moaned at the last moment, and he moved in her through it. 

He held back a sigh. Chances were this would get uncomfortable for her soon. He looked down at himself, sliding in and out of her, and willed his body to bloody well hurry it up. After so many millennia of edging himself for partners, making himself orgasm on command was honestly more difficult. Holding it back was just a matter of thinking about his brother and how fucking frustrating—

Not. Helping.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he turned to the wank bank in his head. He'd seen it all, done it all, and never gotten tired of it. Fabulous stuff. And yet his mind wandered to a face. To a broad smile, to the way she'd stumbled down the steps of his bedroom and stripped, complaining of the heat. To water clinging to breasts in an old B movie.

Lucifer came abruptly, gasping and clenching his thighs to keep from being too rough. Betsy reached back a hand and touched one of his legs.

After, they drew close, though he had no intention of staying the night. 

"Don't worry about your friend," Betsy whispered. "I'll make sure she lives here."

Lucifer closed his eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

***

* * *

Days passed, and the detective received her call from Sunrise Properties. Lucifer should have been able to be smug about it all, whilst she wondered how on earth he thought he deserved credit for anything regarding her living situation. He always enjoyed teasing her with truths she couldn't understand. But there was no time for amusement when she had her car accident and Uriel popped up, unwanted as always.

And then Uriel was gone. Murdered. No investigation necessary to discover who did the evil deed. Sometimes he still felt the blood on his hands.

As Lucifer had long feared would happen, the good life he had forged for himself on Earth got caught up in celestial rubbish. Everywhere he turned, he was confronted by the reality of his otherness. If it wasn't one thing, it was another: his therapist's brain turned to mush, Mum off being dangerous and disquietingly hot, Amenadiel being an impotent prick. This was _not_ what the life of a retiree was supposed to look like.

Things had gotten so busy of late that he was even behind on matters of business, and despite what the detective might think of his lifestyle, he was _never_ behind on business. One morning, when he finally had a bit of bloody time to himself, he listened to his voicemails. Most were tragically missed booty calls, but there was also a call from a solicitor with Bowen Law Offices. 

Lucifer returned the call and chatted up the receptionist while he waited to be put through to the solicitor. It was all old hat. Small legal matters popped up all the time when you had as much money and property as the Devil did.

He did not, however, expect the call to be about Betsy Miller, who frankly had not crossed his mind all month.

The middle-aged woman on the other end of the call had the cool professional tone of all American lawyers who were actually above board. "Now, I'm not sure if you're aware, Mr. Morningstar, but Ms. Miller passed away a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh," he said, not quite sure how to feel. Largely unsurprised, he supposed. Humans came and went. 

"Yes... I'm sorry for your loss. But...you weren't related to Ms. Miller, were you?"

"No."

"What was your relationship with her otherwise?"

"We had one night together."

The solicitor paused. "I-I see. This, uh...one night...didn't happen to take place in mid-October, did it?"

Lucifer swirled the scotch in his tumbler, wondering where this all was going. "Yes, 12th of October, I believe."

"Yeah...okay. So, she changed her will on the 13th."

"And?"

"And she left you...everything."

"She bloody _what_?" he shouted, standing up at once.

"I'm sure it comes as quite a shock. There's some stock and savings, but the main thing was she owned a complex of townhomes."

"I'm aware!"

"O-okay. Well, we just need to have you come in and sign some things so we can start the probate process. That takes time, and—"

"My name _can't_ be on anything."

"Uh... It has to be? This is a great deal of property, sir."

"But I would be her— I would be the tenants' landlord."

"Oh! Yeah, but Ms. Miller already used a management company to handle some things—let me see, uh...Sunrise Properties? You could just expand their duties if you didn't want to live onsite or be hands-on."

He already _had_ been hands-on. That was the point!

The solicitor yammered on at length about laws in the state of California that the Devil had no interest in knowing and didn't bother to listen to. When the call finally ended, he wandered to his bar and grabbed a bottle of his most expensive whisky. Opening it, he leaned against the bar counter, shocked. 

He was Chloe Decker's landlord, and she could never, ever know it.

"I'm too good in bed," he muttered to himself, and tilted the bottle back.


End file.
